The House in Grosvenor Square: A Novel of Regency England (The Regency Trilogy Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  He admitted that she had not been enthusiastic to the idea, but had no wish to displease her betrothed. He finished the story; how the wrong coach had appeared and how everything had gone black directly following the whopping blow to his head. He touched it gingerly, feeling the wet blood on his hair, and reapplied his handkerchief.

  Lord Alvanley was troubled, but after a few moments thought, said, “Hey! It might be someone playing a trick, you know.”

  “Would a trickster have nearly done me in?” Mr. O’Brien lowered his head sufficiently so that the nasty, bloody gash could be seen in the lamplight. Mr. Mornay took his first real look at the injury and grimaced. “You’d best be taken home where your mamma can do something for you.”

  “No, sir!” he replied. “I am to blame in this matter, and I will not return to my house until I know that Miss Forsythe is safe.”

  Mr. Mornay looked appraisingly at him. “You’ll be little good to us in your condition. And since we haven’t a clue as to the whereabouts of my fiancée, I think it better we leave you out of the business where you may recover.

  Mr. O’Brien swallowed. “I must insist that you do not,” he replied, gravely. For the first time since their acquaintance, Mr. Mornay felt a twinge of respect for the young man. Perhaps he had some bottom, after all. The matter was dropped.

  The coach halted and the groom jumped down, came round, rapped urgently on the door, and opened it. He had been atop the board with the coachman in case he might spy anything suspicious. He had seen Miss Forsythe on many occasions and could recognize her—if they could find her.

  “Beggin’ pardon, sir, but where do you want us to search?”

  “Head toward the East End!” Mr. O’Brien cried in exasperation. He felt it did not take a superior brain to realize that most of the criminals in town came from that region of the metropolis.

  The others looked at him in surprise, and Mr. Mornay felt his second twinge of respect for the boy.

  The groom turned to his master, who said, “Do it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whiddington eyed Ariana uncomfortably. Apparently he hadn’t considered that he might be delivering a young woman of gentle birth to her death. But he shifted in his seat and then said, “Lor’, I ain’t supposin’ ‘is lordship wants to do away with ye. 'E 'as other plans.”

  She gaped at him, horrified. Her lovely white face turned deep red and her countenance dropped so completely that Mr. Whiddington, seeing her response, said, “Oh, that’s how it is, eh? You are a young’un. Well, I don’t see as ah quite got the choice, there, now, do ah?”

  “Of course you do! Lord Wingate might have picked a hundred other men to do his dirty work for him, but he chose you on account of your being available, that’s what! It was your choice, entirely, and I pray God you suffer for it!” She felt terrible as soon as the words left her lips, but Mr. Whiddington seemed, if anything, more uncomfortable than ever.

  “Nay, you needn’t bring Him into it!” he muttered with a deep scowl. And then, in an irked tone, repeated, “Ah do what ah needs to do for me livin’! No more’n no less!”

  Ariana felt a sudden hope. “I shall pray to God this very minute for my deliverance!” She closed her eyes on the spot, tried to envision herself sitting in the pew at St. George’s on a Sunday, and began a prayer, speaking loudly to impress her hearer.

  “Almighty God, we thank and praise Thee for Thy great might and power. For Thy omniscience! That Thou seest all. And knowest all.” She decided to pray in the formal language of the Anglican church—though her parents had always prayed more as the Methodists, sensing instinctively that it would better impress her audience.

  She peeked an eye open to see that Mr. Whiddington had indeed given her his full attention, and was sitting there with a look of utter horror on his face.

  “Nay, there’s no call for that sort o’ thing!”

  “Of course there is!” She interjected. She continued, “We know, O God, that Thou art just and wilt do with us as we deserve on that great and coming Day of Judgment.”

  “Oh, now, did ye have to go and say that?”

  Ignoring this, she added, “I heartily ask Your forgiveness for my wrongdoings, O Lord.” She peeked here and saw Mr. Whiddington now in a serious slump, his face quite, quite dejected. His only sound was a low, drawn out, “Oh……”

  She began to pray in earnest. Lord Wingate had taken the trouble of tricking her into leaving the safety of the house, forcing her into the carriage with this vulgar ruffian, and had cruelly injured Mr. O’Brien. What, then, could he have in mind for her, except some horrible fate too unspeakable to contemplate? She forced her mind to focus on Mr. O’Brien and prayed very hard for his welfare. It gave her some peace to pray for someone other than herself, for it helped keep her mind from the thought of what was in store for her. Until Mr. Whiddington once again placed his pistol upon his thigh and was holding it with one hand, which distracted her.

  His face was still dejected, filled with sorrow, in fact. There was just enough dim light from the glim he had with him to see faintly.

  The coach had very small windows, so she could not even see a street sign, and nothing well enough to know their whereabouts. She eyed the pistol. She was in dangerous hands, indeed.

  She thought of Mr. Mornay, and how he would wish to protect her—if he knew! Oh! But he probably didn’t. Why hadn’t she verified that he wanted her to leave without him? He had never requested such a thing, before. Why had she been so willing to believe this of him?

  Feeling herself ready to cry, she prayed again, more fervently than before. It was the only way to keep her emotions in check. She decided to try once more to sway the man with the one thing he definitely wanted—money. With a curious look at him, she ventured, “I suppose you aren’t interested in earning fifty pounds? This nasty business can still be avoided, and God Himself will look favourably upon it, if you grant me your aide.”

  The man studied her. He grunted, “ʼow do you ken ought about God? We go back a long ways, ma pretty mort, and I got a long list o’ things he didna like!”

  “We all do, Mr. Whiddington. But God is forgiving.” Her calmness impressed him more than her words. She seemed so utterly certain of what she was saying.

  There was another silence and then a bitter guffaw. “Your list ain’t nowt to the likes o’ mine, depend upon it! Ah cain’t be ‘elped! An’ I gots to do what ah gots to do!”

  “That is nothing to the point,” she returned, as calmly as before. “You mistake the matter. Size, quantity, quality, manner or matter of wrongdoing—it makes no difference to whether He can forgive you, sir! If you do the littlest misdeed you may as well have done the worst—either one keeps us from heaven!”

  He was listening but with a look of doubt and suspicion.

  “Then it’s all spades for me, luv—and for everyone else, too! We’re all done up!”

  “We would be, you’re absolutely correct, but for Christ who died for us. He died for YOU, sir! He DIED for you! He died to pay for every sin, big or little. It makes no difference to God; Christ’s forgiveness covers all!” She stared at him. He seemed to have a conscience for God; he knew, somewhere in his being, he knew God watched him. She felt no pity, but suddenly a cold anger. “You are giving yourself to a life of misdeeds when you might find mercy and help and forgiveness, and HEAVEN after all! How can you be so—pigeon-headed?” He

  Her large eyes were visible to him in the dark. They were filled with such indignation and righteous anger that for a moment Mr. Whiddington wanted to drop his head in his hands. Oh, why was this demned bleached mort managing to render him useless? He rapidly filled with self-reproaches so violent and unavoidable that his entire being was shaken. She was destroying the great wall he had carefully put in place to keep him from just such thoughts!

  Other than removing his hat or cap when passing a gospel shop he had managed for quite a long time to keep Him out of his thoughts altogether. Why did this lass, so inn
ocent-looking, indeed a right white ewe, have to remind him of all his sins? And then it hit him, and he felt alarm to the bottom of his holey boots.

  “Ye’re the Black Spy, ain’t cha?!”

  “The what?”

  “Old Nick! Old Harry, the Devil, ‘imself!”

  “Oh, don’t be a gull!” Ariana was finding herself saying the strangest things: pigeon-headed, gull—words she never used, before. Soon she’d be speaking ‘St. Giles’s Greek’ if she wasn’t careful. “Would I be telling you to mend your ways and that God will indeed forgive you utterly, if I were?”

  “Ay,” he answered flatly, “‘coz I cain’t do it! Yo’r ‘ere to torture me with it!”

  “Of course you can’t, not on your own, but you won’t be on your own. All you need do is ask God to help you, and He will. There’s nothing impossible about it!” She was really out of patience with him. “If you indeed wish to repent and have a home in heaven, then you must abandon your lawless ways. And I suggest you start right now!” She saw he was giving her curious, but wary, attention. So she added, “All you must do, right this minute, is stop being a vessel for evil. Don’t take me to Wingate! Take me back to the West End, and I, in turn, will see that you are rewarded handsomely. I’ll…I’ll find you a situation.”

  “What, me work? Nae, lass, I ain’t never worked a day in me life!”

  Impatiently she responded, “You, Mr. Whiddington, have had to work your entire life. Scrimping and scrounging. Napping other people’s articles and effects at peril of your life—then, selling them to rogues for less than they’re worth, no doubt.”

  “Eh, ‘ow’d you ken, that?”

  “It’s what you do, sir. It’s what hundreds of you do.”

  He looked at her darkly, weighing her words. “What sort o’ situation?”

  Ariana stared at him, thinking, for a moment. What sort of situation, indeed? “I could take you on. You will be a man-of-all-work. Surely you are capable of helping cook, or—”

  “In the kitchens? Me?” He wrung out the words to great effect, and his face took on a look of such abhorrence and aversion that Ariana saw her mistake, and hurriedly added, “The stables, then! The fields. Whatever you like, Mr. Whiddington.”

  His countenance lifted at those words. “I kin drive a coach,” he offered., his eyes revealing a faint light of hope.

  Ariana nodded, trying to hide her uncertainty. “We may need another coachman,” she said, carefully. He seemed amply reassured.

  “Or—ah could be one o’ those fancies, what ‘angs on the back o’ the carriage.”

  “A footman. Of course!” She smiled at him. So he sees himself wearing livery, does he? “Mr. Mornay’s livery is splendid. Crimson and gold! You’ll look so—” here her words died on her tongue, for what could she say? Handsome? That would be flummery. His was not the sort of physique that was favoured for footmen to begin with, being quite large of girth. His calves alone were absurdly unfit. Footmen in the best households were often hired by the look of their calves. They had to look good in the old-fashioned knee-breeches and waistcoat which livery required. Finally she said, “Dignified!”

  He smiled, revealing a lopsided grin. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  The carriage pulled up to the curb just then, and he said, “Wait,’ere, ma good mort!” When he’d gone, Ariana strained to look out the window and was daunted to see they were in a little side alley in a seedy neighborhood. There were doxies standing about, eyeing the carriage with hardened, sullen looks. Ariana sat back quickly when the eye of one fell upon her. Her headdress alone would inform anyone that she was a change from the usual fare of women on that street.

  As she considered whether or not to make a run for it—for being in that neighbourhood at night, alone, might be far more dangerous than staying put—Mr. Whiddington returned. The carriage began moving while he sat down heavily across from her; then she heard the sound of flint striking stone, and watched as he lit the lamp and extinguished the glim.

  With the better light, she could see all the more why the man would have agreed to nap a girl for a mere five pounds. His clothing was ratty, the boots worn, and his unkempt hair scraggly. He had a large, bulbous nose, and his skin was coarse and red—the little she could see above a greying beard. His eyes were deep in his face, rather large, and looking at her just as curiously as she was studying him. Perhaps more so. His eyes lighted on the area above her chest—upon her necklace. He was probably wondering how large a sum it could fetch him. It was an emerald, surrounded by little diamonds, a gift from Mr. Mornay after his return from Chesterton.

  “‘ow do ah ken ye’ll keep yer word, if ah bring ye back, eh?”

  The carriage was turning around! She took off her necklace and said, “If I do not keep my word, you may keep this.”

  He received it with glowing eyes, held it up closely to inspect and then shoved it down deeply into a pocket of his voluminous coat.

  “Since I do mean to keep it and appoint you a footman, you will return it to me when you don your livery.”

  He nodded. “Ah kin live with that.”

  “And now, you will kindly give me your weapon.”

  He looked at her askance with great alarm. “The devil I will!” A sheepish look. “Beggin’ yer pardon.” But his face was pained. “I cain’t do that! I'd be in a hobble! Give up me barkin’ iron?”

  “Mr. Whiddington, I will return it you when I’ve been delivered to safety. And then I will buy it from you. As a footman, you’ll really have no need of it.”

  “No need?” he was incredulous. “I know the coves what naps coaches, and they all got barkin’ irons, mum! Aye, a footman needs ‘is bull dog, all right.”

  Ariana blinked. “A bull dog?”

  He held up his pistol. “Me barkin’ iron, luv.”

  Ah, well. That was a thought. She would speak to Mr. Mornay on the matter.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “O’ course, bein’ a fancy ‘anger-on won’t buy back me skin from ‘is lordship! That cove’ll be devilish puckered when he finds out ah’ve bilked him! What good is the fancy duds to me if I was to ʼave my throat slit afore mornin’, eh?”

  This was alarming. The man was already having second thoughts. “I assure you, Mr. Whiddington, Lord Wingate will be brought to justice,” she hastily replied, “and he won’t have the satisfaction of having made you into a cat’s paw!”

  Mr. Whiddington slowly digested this point, and then agreed with a hearty, “Ah-men to that, luv!” But his eyes narrowed. “Lordships are never brought to justice! We ken that, alright.”

  “Oh, you don’t know my fiancé,” she returned, calmly. “This one will be.” She would instruct him, later, on how to address her properly. No footman could call their mistress ‘luv,’ or any other such thing.

  The light in the coach was still on, and suddenly another carriage came abreast of theirs, as if trying to pass them, only, instead of passing, remained side-by-side. It was precarious, and Whiddington’s coachman tried to rid himself of the unwelcome neighbor by speeding up. The other coach did likewise. The carriage was beginning to sway, and Ariana and her captor were forced to hold onto their seats, their heads bobbing with the suddenly violent movements of the vehicle. The noise from the other coach’s horses was loud, and Ariana had to yell, “What is happening?”

  In response, Whiddington cried, “That lunatic whip’ll have us feedin’ daisies yet!” They hung on, grimly. Little by little the other coach was forcing theirs to the side of the road. Whiddington blew out the light and placed his hands against the side of the coach for support. Ariana gripped the worn cushion of her seat. The carriage rocked madly as their driver tried to dodge the other coach which appeared bent on causing a collision.

  A loud report suddenly pierced the air. Ariana gasped. Was Lord Wingate in this other coach?

  Whiddington stuck his fat face at the tiny coach window just as the other vehicle drew ahead of theirs. Their carriage began to slow at once. Ariana
just managed to avoid landing on the floor. She was no longer frightened of Mr. Whiddington, but now what was happening?

  They came to a crawl. Whiddington seemed to know what was afoot. “Blast! We’re gettin’ comp’ny!” He sat back in his seat and cocked his pistol. Then, to Ariana’s surprise, he dug into an inner pocket and pulled out a second one.

  “Come ‘ere, luv, and sit behind me,” he said. Suddenly her abductor had become her protector. “Do you think it’s Wingate?” she asked. Her previous dread returned in full force.

  “Cain’t say. ‘E’s ridin’ a wave, if it’s ‘im,” he replied, for he had noted that the coach was a real bang up specimen, far richer than the one they were in at present, which was Wingate’s.

  “ʼEre,” he said, keeping his eyes steadily on the door of the coach.

  They heard the sound of men’s feet hitting the street and rounding the vehicle.

  “Ah ‘ave yer word on those fancy duds, eh?”

  “I promise you. Upon my honour!”

  “Awright, then.” He pointed his pistol so that it faced the coach door.

  In the next moment, the door of the carriage was pulled open from the outside and Mr. Mornay, with a thunderous expression, appeared, holding a pistol. When Ariana saw him, she lunged at Whiddington, screaming, “Don’t shoot!” But it was too late. A loud report rang out, leaving a cloud of smoke in its wake. She screamed, “Nooo! “ But, filled with horror at the thought that her beloved had been killed, and despite all the hardiness and resourcefulness she had displayed since being abducted, Ariana fell into a faint, slumping senselessly to the side.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Freddy always waited up for the master. He had little to do in the middle of the night, however, so he sifted through the morning’s mail, which he had left on Mr. Mornay’s desk in a pile. There were letters from Christ’s Hospital, Bridewell Hospital, Bethlehem and St. Bartholomew’s. Just yesterday he had carried letters on the silver salver to his master’s study from such places as St. Thomas’s Hospital, the National Benevolent Institution of 1812, the Orphan Working School, and the London Orphan Asylum at Clapton.